


I've Got You Now

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Series: Standalone Stories [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, M/M, Spanking, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: Sherlock thinks John might share his BDSM interests, so he hatches a plan to find out. As he begins to implement his plan, he quickly discovers that what he wants from John is far more than just sex.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

When John and I walked onto the crime scene, I immediately recognized the victim. I'd never spoken to her, but we'd frequented the same club, the type of club where one can engage in certain predilections not shared by most of the public. Membership in the club included signing a nondisclosure agreement since the activities enjoyed therein were viewed by the population at large as laughably bizarre (at best) or deviant and dangerous (at worst). I found myself blushing just thinking about the club in the presence of Greg and John. (Especially John).

The Red Hand was a BDSM club. I'd purchased a membership two years ago immediately after I'd learned there was such a place. I was thirty-two and had been aware of my inclinations since my late twenties. Up until I learned of The Red Hand, I'd had to scrounge through internet rubbish heaps in the hopes of finding partners. Within the world of BDSM, my tastes are quite common, but being a gay male Dominant in search of a gay male submissive had always been difficult. Even at The Red Hand, I'd had difficulty finding a regular sub, and even more difficulty finding a regular sub I actually wanted to have sex with. I spent what felt like an entire year when I first joined the club wanking in the bathrooms after watching countless scenes—and participating in a few—without having a sub of my own and an outlet for the arousal such scenes inspired.

I'd managed to keep that part of my life completely separate from the crime solving and then, in the last year, from the life I shared with John. And now, here I was, staring down at the face of a murder victim I'd seen several times at The Red Hand.

"Single, lives alone, didn't show up to work yesterday," Greg said, consulting his Moleskin. "Her best friend hadn't been able to get ahold of her all weekend, so she came 'round and when the victim didn't answer the door, she tried the knob, found it open, came in, saw the body, phoned the police. The victim—name's, uh, Shelly Cleary—died sometime between late Friday night and early Saturday morning."

"This is obviously a crime of passion, Lestrade," I said, gesturing at the corpse. "Multiple knife wounds, nothing stolen, no sexual assault, murder committed inside her home, door unlocked. So why am I here?"

It took less than two minutes of looking at her and around the room in which she lay to see she was a female Dominant who preferred male subs, a well-practiced but still beginner rigger, kept her practices (as I did) limited to the club, and there was a third person present when she was murdered. She enjoyed sewing, was a new homeowner, and appeared to have done much of the remodeling on her own.

"I was on the phone all last night and today speaking to her family, friends, coworkers—you know the drill—and everyone said she didn't have a boyfriend or girlfriend. In fact, she didn't date at all and they'd never even heard her express interest in anyone. The victim's best friend—the woman who found the body—said she thought Shelly might be _asexual_ , which means—"

"Yes, I know what it means," I said, staring at the corpse, mind racing.

Plenty of people—including John—assumed I was asexual for the same reason. They'd never seen me date or even mention being romantically or sexually interested in someone. For those unattached BDSM practitioners like myself who kept their lifestyle separate from the rest of their life, it was preferable for others to assume we were asexual. It allowed us to avoid questions about our love lives. There is a direct correlation between how long you've been single and the frequency with which people ask you why that is so. In my case, Mrs. Hudson is the only person I know who persists in nagging me about my love life.

But I was not asexual. Far from it, in fact. My libido, like most men's, was high, and being gay meant having access to _other_ men, also with high libidos, This, of course, led to many opportunities to glut myself on sex.

_(men sex john red hand john sex john)_

"You all right? You're flushed, a bit sweaty, too," John said, breaking into my dangerous thoughts.

"It's hot in here," I lied.

"Then take off your coat," John said with a frown.

I shrugged it off and thrust it out for him to take. I marginally noted the coat leaving my hand while I tried to banish any non-case related thoughts. I needed to solve this case immediately, because having John and my brand of sex in confluence were setting off alarm bells in my head. There were things I had boxed away in the attic of my mind palace marked _Do Not Open Under Any Circumstances_ and I felt a knife sliding under the tape that kept them closed. I knew what was in those boxes; of course I did. Didn't I?

Oh, God I did, and the secrets I kept in those boxes were _awful_ terrifying things that should have stayed hidden.

_John, naked and bound in my rope work, arms and torso harnessed and legs artfully spread—blue nylon, perhaps, to match his eyes—bent over my bed, shoulders pressed to the mattress, arse vulnerably exposed to my—_

My breath hitched and I felt my face heat up even more. Oh, my God, I was going to get an erection at a crime scene. Damn Shelly Cleary and her murder!

"Do you have something?" John asked, looking at me with bright-eyed expectation. He was waiting to be awed. He was waiting for me to be extraordinary.

I scowled. "No. Maybe."

"You sure you're feeling all right?" John asked.

Flustered, I snapped, "Come along, John," and hurried towards the door.

"Oi! Sherlock! D'you have—" Greg began, but I cut him off.

"You can wrap up the crime scene," I threw over my shoulder. "I need to look into something before I can give you any answers!"

I made for the curb with even more haste than normal, trying to outrun Greg's questions before John had the chance to dig in his heels and demand I give Greg some answers. As I rushed out the lobby door of the block of flats, and waved my arm frantically for a taxi, I told myself _do not look at John's bum_ , repeating it over and over again. When, finally, a taxi stopped, I ushered him into the back of a taxi, and then —because of course I did—I got a lovely, straight on view of John's beautiful, tight arse. I had to strangle the noise that threatened to escape my throat.

"Are you _sure_ you don't feel bad?" John asked as the taxi got under way. He reached over to put his palm on my face and I smacked it away.

"I'm fine! There's nothing wrong!"

"If you say so," John said, but I could see he was unconvinced.

 _Oh, John,_ I thought, _if you knew what I was thinking, would you let me take you over my knee? Or would you run away in disgust?_

I began outlining a plan to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

When we got home, I could feel John's attention focused on me, but I pretended not to notice. I set myself up on the couch with both of our laptops and my phone in an attempt to look Very Busy. John stood in the kitchen doorway, uncertainty coloring his usual stillness until I barked, "Sit down! Your hovering is making it difficult to think."

He often watched me, but this time his eyes seemed to beg me to look at him. Was it curiosity about the conclusions I'd drawn at the crime scene or worry for my well-being?

My command center on the sofa was meant to make him think I was delving deeply into the case, but I wasn't. I'd already completed what I could for the case in the cab. I'd sent a text to the only two people from the club who I could trust to keep their silence—Geoff, my occasional lover and the sub I did most of my scenes with; and Oasis, the co-owner of The Red Hand, the woman who taught me how to be a Dom. I included a photo of the victim, and asked them to get back to me if they knew anything about her or who she spent time with at the club.

I also sent a message to Oasis detailing my conjectures about John's potential submissiveness, and my nascent desire (or awareness of that desire) to see what might come of it. I explained my plan to lure him to the club, ostensibly as reconnaissance for the case, but really to see how he reacted to what he saw there. If it was a favorable reaction, I would take things a bit further. Perhaps Geoff would be willing to do a private scene with me if I could get John to sit in. Or perhaps I would convince John he had to pose as my sub in order to go undercover. Then I asked for her advice.

As expected, her response wasn't favorable.

_I AM ASHAMED OF YOU! THIS IS NOT WHAT I TAUGHT YOU!!!!!_

To which I replied:

_Do you have any actual advice or will you just be chastising me?_

_YOU'RE SUCH AN ARSEHOLE!!!!!!!!!_

_Your excessive use of exclamation points is unnecessary in light of your excessive use of the all caps function._

_ARSEHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

I laughed and thumbed off my phone, then laid it next to me. Despite the hostility, Oasis was the closest person I had to a friend after John. She was sixty-six years old and born in Mexico City, but ended up in London in the seventies when she followed a self-made guru who was going to bring the gospel of BDSM to the undersexed British nation. The guru lost her favor, but London did not. Half of the Doms I knew had learned under her tutelage. Despite the fact she'd seen her baby _dominantes_ in scenes during which they were naked, often aroused, or even engaged in sexual intercourse, she didn't find witnessing such intimacy precluded her right to act as a mother figure for those of us she considered as belonging to her. (Which was pretty much everyone who came to her club, but those of us she'd trained were special to her. She called us _hijo_ and _hija_ , _son_ and _daughter_ ).

Even I, as cold as I made myself appear to the world at large, could not help but turn to her sometimes. It helped her motherly image that she was barely five feet tall, as dark and round as a plum, and showered us all with Spanish endearments.

I knew she would be angry if she thought I was manipulating John, but I couldn't lie to her about what I intended to do. If I brought him here, she would see him with me and ask questions that might derail my plan. Even if I could only gain her complicity for a short while, it was better than nothing. I _wanted_ to lie to her, but when it came to knowing everything, Oasis was like a benevolent version of Mycroft, if Mycroft had an actual personality. (And was female, Mexican, short and fat, and had a tragic lack of fashion sense).

"John, I'm going out," I said, then stood up and made for my bedroom.

"Where?" he asked, almost accusatory.

"The victim may have been involved in a BDSM practice called _Shibari_ or _Kinkabu_ , a sort of decorative rope bondage. I've put together a list of BDSM clubs I'm going to visit. See if I can find anyone who knew her. No need for you to come along."

In my bedroom, I changed into dark jeans, and a tight black button down with a lighter pinstripe pattern. In the bathroom, I played with my hair and freshened up my aftershave, all for John's benefit as nobody at the club would notice.

When I walked out of my room, John was hovering in the kitchen, and the look on his face when he saw me at least answered the question of whether or not he found me attractive. I immediately catalogued it into my mind palace for a future confidence booster or wank material. (Yes, I was arrogant enough to get off on other people finding me spellbinding and gorgeous.) (I say _other people_ , but really, I meant _John_.)

"I would take you along, but I don't think we would make it past the bouncers without a Met officer in tow, so, alas, I shall have to go in the guise of a native. I'm going to be a Dom for an evening. What do you think?" I casually tossed my hair and spread my arms, then turned around slowly.

"A Dom?"

I stilled briefly. Had I given myself away with that thoughtlessly used bit of jargon? No, certainly not. I relaxed, and made for the sitting room where I pocketed my phone, wallet, and keys. "A Dom. As in someone who dominates. As in bondage, dominance, submission, and sadomasochism. As in B-D-S-M." I drew each letter out like I was spelling something for a small child.

John frowned. "I know what BDSM is."

"Excellent! Don't wait up." I plucked my coat off the hook, threw it around my shoulders and was off.

~*~

Because it was a Tuesday night, the club was quiet, with hardly any people around. This made it easier for Oasis to find me and corner me. She glared up at me. "Where's your victim?"

She was not referring to the murder victim. "I left him at home. I plan to inflame his curiosity by disappearing mysteriously every night, and spending the day with a look on my face that suggests I've been engaging in copious amounts of sexual intercourse."

"I'm serious," she snapped.

"Relax," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'm not going to hurt him."

"Lying hurts," she said, and pulled her shoulders back, squaring up for a fight.

"I'm not _lying_ to him. In a few days, should he show enough curiosity, I'll invite him along, and we can sit in on a scene and I'll see how he reacts. Harmless, really."

"But why not just _tell_ him?" she pleaded, pulling herself clumsily up onto a bar stool.

I shrugged, feeling like a sullen schoolboy. "I don't want him to think I'm a freak."

 _"¡No! querido_ , is that truly what you believe your John will think?"

"He's not _my_ John. As to what I believe will happen, there are at least four scenarios that come to mind, should I be so bold as to confess to John my secret BDSM desires which now include my desire to tie him up, bend him over my bed, spank him and then fuck him. Scenario number one—the confession makes him uncomfortable, his discomfort erodes our friendship, and he leaves. Scenario number two—he's not uncomfortable, but he's not interested in either BDSM or myself, and certainly not the two of us together, and the resultant awkwardness erodes our friendship and he leaves. Scenario number three—he's interested in BDSM, but not me, and the resultant awkwardness of his rejection erodes our friendship and he leaves. Scen—"

"Sherlock—"

"Not finished! Scenario number four—he's interested in BDSM _and_ me, but the power exchange doesn't work out, for any number of reasons, but I won't go into them or we'll end up with a tree of possibilities I'll need a whiteboard to keep track of—"

" _Pequeño!"_ Oasis cried, alarmed at my rising voice and anxiety.

" _Still not finished!_ Scenario number five—he's interested in BDSM _and_ me _and_ the power exchange works, but he—but I—"

My thoughts ground to a halt. _But?_ I prompted myself. I looked helplessly at Oasis who was staring back at me with concern glimmering in her black eyes. She reached out and grabbed my hand, holding onto it and patting it despite my attempts to remove it from her grasp. I made a noise of disgust and slumped a little closer, allowing myself to accept a modicum of her comfort before shifting away again.

"You're worried he's going to leave, and you're equally worried that this—whatever you want with him—will work out! Don't you know what that means?"

"That I worry too much?"

"Ha. Ha. _Mijo_. Tell me what you _really_ want."

"I'm not one of your trainees, Oasis. You don't have to _baby_ me."

"I'm not _babying_ you, _¡Qué idiota!_ Look in your heart. Tell me what you see."

"Darkness."

"Ugh," she growled, pushing my hand away. "Idiot boy! _Piensas demasiado y te vuelves loco. ¡_ Me _vuelves loca!"_

With that, Oasis turned to the bartender, who came over to talk to her, leaving me in peace. Reluctantly, and with great trepidation, I allowed myself to open the box in the attic of my mind that was hidden away behind everything else.

The possibility of love, in the way I wanted— _needed_ —it, was a longing I had never allowed myself. Who would ever love me when my work was dangerous, my personality chaotic and abrasive, my demands on one's time unreasonable, and my sexual satisfaction lay in tying someone up and hurting them?

It was improbable someone like that would fall into my lap without effort on my part, and the idea of wasting time _looking_ for someone to fit the bill, well—it was easier to tell myself I couldn't want it because I wouldn't have it.

Besides. Love—ugh. How pedestrian.

If, however, it were true that John could share my home, my work, my life, _and_ enjoy being tied up, spanked, and fucked—the thought was too much. I couldn't find a place to begin to unravel everything I was feeling, much less attempt to guess what _John_ felt or might think if I were to—oh, God, for lack of a better word— _offer_ myself to him.

"Hello, gorgeous!" a familiar voice said, and grabbed me by the elbow to spin me around.

"Geoff," I said, feeling like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't.

"You look edible," he said with a heated look and grabbed the back of my neck to pull me into a kiss. My lips didn't move, as though my body had already given itself to John, and even Geoff, who'd been my only sexual partner for almost a year, was being rejected.

It wouldn't have mattered if I _had_ responded to his overture because shortly after he tried to kiss me, Oasis began beating us about the head with her fat little hand. "Stop! Hands off! Sherlock is having boy problems! Be serious!"

Geoff jerked his head back and stared at me with playful eyes. " _Boy_ problems? What boy problems?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Oasis, can't you keep anything to yourself?" I groaned.

"Yes, but not this because if you want John then you have to get rid of Geoff."

"What?" Geoff cried, both hands clutching at his chest. "That's heartless, Oasis!"

" _Verdad_ , but you know me. I like to cut through all the bullshit."

"When did you start wanting John?" Geoff asked me, eyes wide and hurt.

I tried to speak, but ended up making aborted gestures to indicate my own flummoxed state.

"Good Lord, Sherlock, I saw you _three days ago_ and in that time you went and got a thing for your best friend? I thought he was _straight!_ "

All I could do was offer a quiet apology, and while Geoff and I stared at each other, both knowing our relationship had just come to an abrupt end, Oasis broke in again.

"Okay, okay, this isn't couples therapy here," Oasis said, waving her hands at us. "But look. Sherlock. If you're gonna go for John, you have to _go_ for him, _con todo_ , you know what I mean? You can't have Geoff here on the side just in case. It's not fair to anyone. So. I laid the groundwork. _Vaya con dios_ and make the love happen."

With that, Oasis walked off, leaving me to perform the agonizing job of breaking up with Geoff. He was angry, of course, as he had a right to be. We'd had a comfortable play partnership and great sex, but I'd never thought of us as more than that. We'd never said we were exclusive—although neither of us had had sex with other people. Well, _I_ hadn't. I didn't know about Geoff, but I suspected he hadn't. Sitting in the quiet corner of an empty room at the club, I watched Geoff cry softly and began to doubt everything. How could I hope to navigate something as tricky as a D/s relationship with _John_ , when I hadn't even realized, after almost a year, that Geoff was in love with me?

I forced myself to go home before I could give into what I knew I could have instead of what I feared I could not.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The next night, I repeated my performance. I dressed as though I was on the prowl, told John I was going through my list of BDSM clubs, and then breezed off, pretending not to hear his questions about where I was going, what I knew, and—most difficult for me to ignore—whether I needed his presence.

 _Yes, yes,_ I wanted to cry, falling deeper into the swirling conundrum of my wants, needs, fears, desires, over and over, _ad nauseum_. I didn't go to the club. Instead, I walked, ruminating over that late afternoon crime scene, and what had prompted me to think John might be interested in BDSM—both in general and with myself.

This is how it went:

After John urged me to take off my coat, I'd handed it to him without thinking about it, knowing he would take it. And he had, even though I hadn't asked, even though I hadn't thanked him, even though it wasn't his responsibility.

I'd known that John was loyal and had a strong sense of duty since the moment we'd met. He appeared to have a hard line on what was right and wrong, but actually possessed a dubious morality that had allowed him to shoot a cabby who posed no actual fatal threat to my person, but who _John_ felt posed a threat. At the time, I took it to be loyalty and his inclination to protect.

Despite complaints and rows over the topic of my _taking him for granted_ , John continued to do what I said and go where I pointed him, no matter how inconvenient my requests, even when I dragged him out of work, out of restaurants, cinemas, pubs, and—on one memorable occasion—out of bed with a woman when they were both half naked. In fact, I couldn't remember a single time John refused to do something for me. I'd always thought it boredom on his part, and that he justified the indignity of it by telling himself he was helping with my work. After all, my work put criminals away and saved lives, and John was all about justice. Plus, there was that need to protect others.

But what if there was more to it?

What if shooting Hope hadn't been a result of an inclination to protect _in general_ , but a duty he'd taken upon himself to protect _me?_ What if John had no need to justify obedience to me as beneficial to my work, because he found pleasure in the simple act of obedience? What if John's unswerving loyalty and willingness to do everything I asked of him came from a deeper need, one which only I (hopefully) could satisfy?

Could it be that John's gnarled little heart beat in deference to my natural dominance? Was his strident defense of his heterosexuality a cover for desires more forbidden than the desire for the touch of another man? Was John, either consciously or unconsciously, pining for me to dominate him in a much more structured way?

Thus, the boxes in the attic of my mind palace burst open, and the equilibrium in my life was overthrown. Now I was in torment. I had no sense of self-preservation when it came to my life, but when my heart was on the line? Was the possibility of love with John worth losing what we already had even if it would never truly be enough?

I had no answers.

~*~

The third night, Oasis met me in Soho to give me the information I'd asked for on the victim, Shelly Cleary. Oasis gave me two names and I texted them to Greg, gave him Oasis's name and the address of the club, and gratefully washed my hands of the whole thing.

While we took shelter from the sleet in a cafe, Oasis asked me how I was doing—by which she meant The John Thing—and I told her the truth. I was torn and despondent. Terrified to speak to him and uncomfortable in his presence, as though he would see the things I wanted to do to him in my eyes and how they lingered on him. What frightened me even more was the erosion of my discipline. I had to focus on not staring him. I stopped myself from grabbing him and kissing him when he came near. I wanted to yell at him to go and never come back because wanting him, wanting _this_ with him, and not knowing if I could have it was maddening. To make matters worse, my plan to go about this systematically so as to minimize fallout had begun to feel sterile.

"Tell him," she said, staring into my eyes with her own burning ones. "You deserve to be happy, _pequeño._ I lit a candle for you at church last night. _Tengo una sensación_ —I feel it in my gut, you understand? Your John loves you."

I gave her a skeptical glare. "You do realize lighting a candle has no influence on whether John wants me."

I had my hands pressed together, fingertips to fingertips, but quick as a striking snake, she had both hands gripped tightly in hers and was leaning over the table, her own face inches from mine, eyes pleading and fierce at once. "Do you know the phrase _let go and let God?"_ she asked.

"Unfortunately," I drawled, unsettled by her intensity.

"Whether you believe in God or not does not matter. It's the point." She let go of one of my hands and slashed her own through the air. "You decide to let go, _así._ You, _mijo_ , you think too much. _Tu haces_. You must _do_ instead of _think_. Go home tonight, right now, and you _tell him_. Not, _John I want to be your Dom,_ because that's not the heart of you, _¿verdad?_ The heart is what you have to lose, so you tell him that which frightens you most. You say, _John, I am in love with you._ And then, _mijo_ , you stop thinking, and doing. You stop talking. And you _listen_. Let him tell you. _¿Lo entiendes?"_

I stared at her, then opened my mouth to say _it's not that simple_ , but before I could draw a breath, she had come around to my side of the table, smacked me upside the head, pointed to the door, and said, "Go _now_ , or I will go and speak for you, _querido_. Text me and tell me how it goes."

I nodded my head and left.

~*~

The closer the cab got to home, the deeper dread dug its claws into my gut. I was hot, then cold. In my gut, fear that John would reject me alternated with anger—anger at Oasis for calling my bluff, at Greg for bringing me to that damn crime scene, at Shelly Cleary for having the audacity to be murdered, and at John for making me fall in love with him.

When I arrived at the flat, I found John waiting up for me. As soon as I was in the door, he leapt to his feet. He stalked towards me, stabbing a finger in my direction. "You," he said, and I found myself having to consciously hold my ground as he got nearer. "You and I are going to _sit down_ like reasonable people and have a conversation about this. Right. Now."

"This?" I asked, confused and afraid. Did he _know_ what I meant to tell him? If so, this was not an auspicious beginning.

John stomped back over to his chair and then dragged something heavy around it. I recognized immediately the object he pushed to the middle of the sitting room. An old-fashioned steamer trunk, with leather bindings and two clasps that locked. I never locked them. I never needed to. John, unlike myself, was not a snoop.

He pushed the lid open so roughly it almost came crashing back down again. The fear I'd felt in the cab was winning by innumerable lengths. It was the only thing beating in my breast—fear at his rejection, at his anger, fear of the pain of a broken friendship.

" _This,"_ he said, as he reached into the box and pulled out two hanks of rope, one in each hand, then tossed them on the floor. "And _this,"_ as he hauled out a wooden paddle two feet long and three quarters an inch thick. "And _this_." Out came a plastic container of earplugs, then a leather O-ring bit, then a soft suede blindfold. We were both rigid with anxiety by the time he'd hauled every single thing out of the box—every dildo, gag, paddle, crop, belt, prostate massager, butt plug—and piles and piles of rope—hemp, cotton, nylon, almost all an unbleached off-white, except for the bright white of the nylon rope.

"Tuesday night—you weren't pretending, were you?" John accused. "These clubs—you've been to them before, haven't you? So is that why you wouldn't take me? You thought I would embarrass you? Because I'm so _boring,_ so _ordinary_ that I would make you look foolish in front of your little BDSM friends?"

 _"What?"_ I cut off a wild, hysterical laugh before it could escape. "When have I _ever_ cared what others thought of me, John?"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" John's voice was pained and dangerously close to cracking. "I've sat here for three nights trying to figure out what's going on in that big brain of yours, but nothing I came up with was flattering to me. So tell me, Sherlock. I'm man enough to take it. What brand of ordinary, of _inferior_ was I this time around?"

"Oh, John," I whispered, moving towards him, skirting the contents of my trunk easily without taking my eyes off of him. I reached for him, but he darted out of my reach. His body language was so unyielding, even as his face seemed on the verge of falling into dejection. "Do you really believe I think so little of you?" I asked, my words an echo of Oasis's Tuesday night in the club. _Is that truly what you believe your John will think?_

"I don't know. I can't ever tell. Sometimes I think—"

"What? Tell me what you sometimes think—that I respect you and that you're vital to my work and my well-being? That you're my best friend? That I share everything with you, more than I've ever shared with anyone? That I care for you? Because if those are the things you sometimes think, then you are correct."

"What?" he asked, surprise loosening his stubborn posture.

I reached for him again, and this time he did not try to move away from me. I wrapped my arms around him and my hands couldn't help themselves—they roved over his back, one going up to cup his neck and the other going down to press against the dip of his spine right above the curve of his buttocks. I used both hands to bring us flush against each other.

I pressed my cheek against his, my lips brushing against his ear. He shivered, and his hands came up to rest loosely on my back. I wanted him to grip me and pull me even closer to him, but he didn't. I found all my negatives emotions had fled, as had the hand-shaking excitement of leaping into the unknown. Instead, I was calm because I was here, where I was always meant to be—holding John and telling him the truth.

"There's something you need to know," I said quietly, and when I felt his cheek rasp against mine, pressing infinitesimally closer, I whispered, "I am in love with you," each word a soft exhalation that breezed across his ear.

I stepped away, smiling nervously, and said quietly, "I'll make us some tea. If you want to talk. Even if you don't want to talk. Or if you already know what to say? You know, I'll just go make the tea," I said decisively, and turned, heading for the kitchen, before the stunned look on his face could morph into something that would kill me.

I did what Oasis had advised me to do—I stopped thinking and plotting, didn't talk or demand or unleash a barrage of questions at John. I waited. Not patiently, exactly, because I had no patience—but because he would come to me when he was ready, and to push him before then was like taking back my assertion of love and respect.

So, instead, I did what John did a half dozen times a day. I filled the kettle and switched it on, then got out two mugs and two tea bags. With the discipline of long years of self-denial, I forced myself to keep my feet rooted in front of the worktop, and watched the kettle. Its ticking and clanking seemed teeth-grindingly loud in the ominous quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

All was still quiet in the sitting room. I checked my watch as the kettle began to boil. It was fifteen to eleven at night. The kettle clicked off and I poured the hot water over the tea bags in our mugs to steep, glancing again at my watch.

Even though I was waiting for him, I was still startled when John walked into the kitchen. His steps were slow, deliberate. He stopped near the table and pulled out a chair. I gave him his tea and sat down in the opposite chair, moving a pile of newspapers out of my way.

John sipped his tea, staring at the table top. Finally, he lifted his head. "I don't understand," he said, shaking his head.

I wanted to say, _It hardly takes a genius to understand what the words_ I'm in love with you _signify!_ Instead I said, "Which part don't you understand?"

"All of it!" he said, throwing his hands up in the air. "I mean, I discover you're into BDSM and then you come home, and when I ask what the hell is going on, you tell me that you love me! I thought all this stuff—sex, love—wasn't your area. That's what you told me the day we met."

"I said _girlfriends_ weren't my area!" I said in frustration.

"And then you shot me down!"

I took a deep breath and tried to explain. "I turned you down because I was focused on the case, I'd only just met you, it didn't seem prudent to begin an affair with my new flatmate, and as you can see—" I gestured towards the pile of toys and rope in the sitting room. "—my tastes are unusual." I paused and made sure I was holding his eyes. " _And_ I was already involved with someone."

John fidgeted with his mug, his eyes on his hands. "Are you still involved with someone?" he asked looking at me from underneath his eyebrows.

"No. I ended it Tuesday night, when I realized that my feelings for you could no longer be—contained."

"Contained? So you've felt this way about me for a while?"

"John," I said impatiently. "I understand your curiosity, but you're missing the larger point. I've just confessed I'm in love with you. This is usually the part where you would say, _I'm in love with you, too_ or _I'm really flattered, but I don't share those feelings_. So can we get _that_ out of the way before moving on to other things?"

John's mouth twitched with a smile, but he turned serious. "I've wanted you since the day we met, Sherlock. I didn't think sex was ever going to be an option, much less _love_."

"Well, your options— _our_ options—are wide open now. Love and sex in a _real_ relationship, as in the next time someone asks if we're together we say _yes_. So, do you want it?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, his mouth twisting to the side as he fought a smile. "I want it. But what about that stuff in there?"

"Are you interested in the stuff in there?"

"Maybe," John said, blushing slightly.

"I think you want it. I think you would love for me to tie you up and do unspeakable things to your naked body," I purred. "Most of all, though, I think you like being told what to do."

John lifted his eyebrows in a question. "Really. That's what you think?" he asked, smirking.

"Oh, I do," I said, my voice low as arousal started to pulse through my body at the challenge. We held each other's eyes. "John," I husked. "Come stand in front of my chair." When our staring contest continued without anyone moving, I dropped my head back and groaned. "Oh, come on, John, I just want to kiss you."

John got up and started towards me. We maintained eye contact the whole time he walked towards me. I pushed away from the table, staying seated, and slouched slightly, my legs stretched out in front of me, spread wide. He moved to stand in front of me. I reached for him, hooking my fingers in his belt loops and yanked him forward so he was standing in between my legs. I looked up at him, unable to help the grin that spread across my face.

"I want to see you naked," I whispered, looking from his face down to his crotch and back up again.

"Usually there's kissing before anyone gets naked," John said. His lips were slightly parted and he was sleepy-eyed with yearning.

I laughed darkly, leaning up towards him. "Kiss me, then."

John's lips, when they touched mine, were slick and soft. Heat flooded my body. He laid his hands on my chest and then, with a slowness that scorched a trail on my skin he slid them up and over my shoulders before tangling his fingers in his hair. His mouth opened against mine and I groaned, deep in my throat. I tried to suppress it but that only lent it the sound of a grunt and John chuckled throatily.

I felt like I had been starving without knowing it and John's mouth and hands weren't feeding me fast enough. His hands and his lips became rougher; I responded in kind. Our lips had gone beyond mere kissing—our mouths were bruising each other in the desire to be closer and closer still, to bridge every minute gap between them. All I could hear was our ragged breathing and the wet sounds of our mouths as they came apart and together over and over. I pulled away from the kiss to press my mouth against his carotid, feeling it hammer against my lips, his racing heart keeping pace with my own. I dug my fingers into the skin at his waist drawing a hiss from him. He pressed his forehead against mine while we tried to catch our breath.

"Do you trust me?" I asked softly.

"With my life," John said without hesitation.

"Let me spank you," I said, and then gently pushed him back so I could stand up.

John hesitated, wetting his lips. "I don't know."

"Is there anything in that pile of stuff in the living room that you're interested in trying?"

John shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting. He looked up at me, and said, "Maybe," playfully drawing out the word.

"Do you think you could find three things in that pile of stuff that you'd like to try?"

"Probably," he said, tilting his head from side to side like he was considering the problem.

"Very well. Before we begin, these are the rules—if at any point you want to slow down or take a break, you say yellow. If you want to stop completely, you say red. Understood?" When John nodded his head, I continued. "Then this is what I want you to do—put everything in that pile of stuff back into the box except for three things that you would like to try. Then bring them upstairs to me. I'll be waiting for you in your room."

" _My_ room?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"Trust me—if all goes well, we'll need the extra floor between us and Mrs. Hudson to muffle the noises."

"Oh. Right," John said, blushing.

I stood up and asked, "You ready?"

When John nodded his head, I walked into the sitting room and reached down next to my chair to grab a book I'd swiped from Donovan's desk, a dystopian thriller. Then, without looking at John, I went upstairs to his bedroom and made myself comfy on his bed.

I'd read nearly forty pages before I heard John's tread on the stairs. My stomach clenched with nerves. I snapped the book shut and moved to sit on the edge of John's bed, fully alert.

Looking wary, John walked into his room, carrying his choices in his arms. His face was alarmingly red. I wondered if he blushed that furiously everywhere.

I pointed next to me on the bed. "Put them here."

John dropped them next to me. They were a crop, leather wrist cuffs, and a blindfold. I let my hands trail over them, thinking, until I heard John clear his throat.

"Now what?" he asked, hands on his hips.

"Now I want you to undress completely, and then kneel right here." I pointed between my feet. I could see him start to work himself up to objecting and I rushed to stop him in his tracks. "Don't think about _anything_ _else_ right now, John. Remember, you have the power to stop at any time, but until then, all you have to do is what I say."

He jerked his head up. "Yeah, I still don't get how the power can be mine when you're going to be the one whipping me with the crop," he said hotly.

I smiled triumphantly. "Ah, but which one of us _chose_ the crop?"

I believe that was the moment that John _got_ it, and BDSM was really one of those things you either _got_ or didn't, regardless of which side of the slash you thought you fell on. John swallowed showily, and then pulled his lips in over his teeth. His head started bobbing up and down. "Yeah, all right," he said, almost to himself. "Okay."

John's fingers went to the buttons on his shirt. I watched greedily as each piece of skin was exposed to my eyes. As he undressed, his teeth and tongue worried his lips so hard they turned from pink to red. When he was down to his underpants, John didn't hesitate. He pushed them down and dropped them on top of the rest of his clothes, then picked the pile up and deposited them on top of the clothes hamper at the foot of the bed.

He kept his eyes on the floor, but I thought it was probably a momentary attack of shyness rather than submission, I thought. He started towards me, very slowly, but then he seemed to become aware of how hungrily I was devouring the sight of his naked body and he stopped.

"Should I turn around?" he asked, his voice playful. The playfulness was a welcome relief.

"Please do," I said and made a little twirling motion with one of my fingers.

In an echo of my move from Tuesday night, John held his arms out and began to slowly turn. My eyes lingered on every part—the muscles in his thighs and the skin that slid over them as he moved. His arse—oh, it was _amazing_. It seemed like it was all meat with only the thinnest layer of fat. It was a powerful arse—no wonder his short legs could keep up with me—those glutes could power a machine.

His stomach was flat but soft. The muscles of his chest weren't overly pronounced, but his shoulders were broad for his height.

Then, I looked at his groin. He had a substantial foreskin from which his glans was just beginning to emerge, shiny and curious.

"Stunning," I whispered, my hand aching to lay into that gorgeous arse. John mightn't have been all the way erect, but _I_ was. I was so hard that I could feel my heartbeat in my dick. I pointed at the floor in front of me.

John came to stand in front of me. And then, holding my eyes, he knelt.

My heart took flight.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

I ran my hands through John's hair while he smiled as though he was only playing along to humor me. Maybe this would be a game we only played once. Maybe he would enjoy being dominated, but not spanked. Maybe he would enjoy being spanked, but not dominated. Maybe he wouldn't like any of it, and I'd be stuck with vanilla sex for the rest of my life.

But I didn't think so. After a year of living together, I was a John Watson expert. John was enjoying this. A quick glance at his crotch and his burgeoning erection confirmed it.

I stroked the tips of my fingers along John's jaw then picked up the crop and held it in front of John. Mimicking the way I'd just then lovingly touched his face, I slid my hands along the length of the crop.

"The crop is a good choice. Technically, this is what's called a _jump bat_. It's shorter than a normal horse crop, only eighteen inches. Do you see this bit of leather on the end?" I asked, rubbing it between my fingers. "This is called the _flapper_. When I have you restrained and laid out in a minute, I'll start with quick snaps—" I flicked my wrist and the flapper thwacked his shoulder, "—like that."

He flinched at the suddenness and glared at me.

I raised an eyebrow "How did that feel?"

"Fine," John said, still frowning.

"Fine?" I ask, shaking my head in mock disappointment. "I'll need more information than that. Did it hurt?"

John shook his head. "Of course not," he said derisively.

"Did it sting?"

"Not really," John said, beginning to look impatient.

"I'll give you about, _hm_ —" I tilted my head side to side as I considered it, "—twenty or thirty strikes as a warm up."

John's eyes widened with alarm.

"I'll gradually hit harder and harder, so that after about seventy-five, warm will become hot, and the heat will keep rising until after about a hundred it will feel like _fire_." I smiled wickedly at him. "Or so I've been told."

I cupped his chin in my hand, letting my thumb stroke gently at the barely there divot in his chin. "Are you ready?"

He nodded his head and I stroked my fingers through his hair before leaning forward for a soft kiss. John brought his hands up, but I grabbed his wrists before he could put his arms around me. "Don't touch me without permission."

John rolled his eyes.

"Rules, John. If you want to touch me, ask permission. At the end of all this, if you still have the energy, we will engage in mutual acts of mind-blowing carnal indulgence. Until then, keep your hands to yourself. Remember, say _yellow_ if you need a break or _red_ if you need to stop." I gripped his chin more tightly. "This is important to remember—if you say _stop_ or _no_ , I'll just ignore it. You _must_ use the word _red_ if you need to stop. Clear?"

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock," John said.

 _Oh, John_ , I thought. _You have no idea what you're in for._

I trotted downstairs for a hank of rope, and hesitated only a moment before darting into my room and grabbing the bottle of lube I kept in my bedside table. When I got back to John's room, I expected him to be sitting on the bed, but he was still kneeling. I kept my triumphant grin hidden. His eyes caught the lube as I pointedly set it down on the bedside table. I looked at him to see if he would remark on it, but he remained quiet.

I held up the cuffs. "I'm going to cuff your hands in front of you to keep the pressure off your shoulder, and then loop some of this rope through the link between the cuffs to tie you to the headboard."

I patted the bed where I wanted him. He climbed up on the bed and knelt where I'd told him. I positioned him in the middle of the bed, but as close to the edge as I could get him without worrying about him falling off if he were to begin squirming about in an unconscious effort to avoid the blows.

I held my forearms together above my head to show him how I wanted his arms placed. He raised his arms up, wrists together, and I buckled on the leather cuffs. I folded a length of rope in half around the chain between the cuffs, then guided the free ends through the loop made by the folded edge. Before I tied the rope to the headboard, I guided him carefully down onto his elbows. The position forced John to keep his knees up in the middle of the bed or risk losing the leverage his elbows provided.

When I was done, he looked up at me, vulnerable and trusting, I leaned down to kiss him. His tongue darted into my mouth and I hummed in pleasure. There was a sudden tension in his body that was probably a result of him attempting to touch me while we kissed and then being forcefully reminded his hands were no longer in his control. I smiled against his lips. When I pulled away, he was slightly breathless, his eyelids heavy.

"You're _mine_ , John Watson," I growled, refusing to moderate the possessiveness in my voice. "I've wanted you like this since the day we met, and I've got you now."

"You're a bit frightening, you know that?" John said, looking not at all frightened.

I gave him my best Gallic shrug then reached over and picked up the blindfold. I held it up with a question in my eyes, and he nodded. I slipped it over his face and then tugged the front down so that it settled over his eyes, positioning the padded notch at the bottom carefully over the bridge of his nose to make sure all light was blocked out.

Then I reached for the crop and gripped it in my hand. I laid my hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. "Easy," I soothed, as I slid my hand from his shoulder down along his flank, to his lower back and finally over his buttocks.

"Ready?" I asked, but didn't wait for him to nod before I landed the first swat.

He jerked, then laughed nervously as he realized he'd overreacted.

"This is just a warm-up, John—it shouldn't hurt."

With constant flicks of my wrist, I peppered his arse with the sting of the flapper, never hitting the same spot twice in a row. Instead I moved quickly over the entirety of the _spanking zone_ , that area on both sides of the buttocks comprised of the gluteus maximus and medius, as well as the adductor magnus, located directly below the buttocks and slightly inwards towards the groin. I carefully avoided the obliques and the lumbar area, and—as much as was possible—kept my strikes on the sacral region light when I couldn't avoid it altogether.

My goal was to bring the blood up to the skin in a gradual darkening from pink to magenta. Unless, of course, John called _red_ before I could get to the magenta stage.

As expected, the skin began to blush. John hadn't made any noise yet, not that I was expecting him to. It was still too early for it to hurt. After the spanking area achieved a light pink, I began using a heavier hand which added the weight of the leather knob into which the flapper was sewn. That would create a deeper bruise.

John's breathing quickened, but he was still making no sounds that he was in discomfort. When I heard him suck in a few gasps, I paused, then smoothed my left hand over his rear to gauge the temperature. His skin was beginning to warm up.

At the touch of my hand on his arse, he made a noise that was half-sigh and half-moan, and rocked back against my hand. Then, abruptly, he stilled.

"Oh, John," I murmured, smoothing my hand over his arse again. "You'll be rutting into my hand before long, I can promise you that."

He made a noise that sounded a lot like _ha_ but I couldn't tell if it was meant as a challenge or simple defiance. I ignored it and started up again with the crop.

The slapping sound of the leather meeting his skin became loud in the room as I put more effort into each swing. I didn't count each blow as it landed because I relied on the color of his skin to tell me when I should increase the power of each strike of the crop or if I should stop to check the temperature of his skin. My internal counter told me I had landed at least seventy or eighty blows by this point. It sounded like a lot, but with a light implement like a crop, one or two hundred hits was not uncommon.

I was watching John's skin and glancing occasionally at the rigidity of his muscles and the tautness of his joints. Straining was expected, but excessive pulling or jerking were not. Suddenly, John rocked forward with a grunt. I froze and opened my mouth to ask him if I should stop when he rocked back again with a low moan.

My groin seemed to ignite with arousal and I fancifully imagined the slit of my cock beginning to ooze. I looked down at my black trousers, but of course black does an excellent job of hiding stains.

"Keep going, don't stop," John muttered breathlessly as I stood staring at him with every nerve alight.

I put down the crop despite John's encouragement, but only so I could clutch a globe of his arse in each hand, kneading the heated skin. I spread his cheeks apart and exposed the puckered pink kiss of his arsehole to my gaze. My breathing stuttered.

"Oh, god," I groaned and John groaned back in sympathy. I laughed weakly. "I want to, to— _oh, god_." I didn't know how to articulate what I wanted. Well, that wasn't strictly true. I _knew_ what I wanted and exactly how to say it, but I didn't want John to recoil in shock or, worse, disgust.

Because what I _wanted_ was to meet the golden-furred and wrinkled skin of his hole with a lewd kiss, the kind involving ample use of one's tongue and lots of saliva. In other words, I wanted to tongue-fuck John's arsehole.

Instead, I kissed his right arse cheek, leaving my lips pressed to the spanking-warmed skin for a few seconds, then straightened back up. Without thinking, I reared back and hit his arse with my open hand and all my strength. This time, John's forward momentum was caused by the force of my blow.

I paused, waiting to see what he would do. John, the sexy little tart, put himself back into position except this time he widened his knees and lowered his pelvis. That pushed his bum higher, making it clear what he wanted.

The moan that escaped my mouth ended into a sound almost like mewling. I hit him again, just as hard. The thin lipid layer covering his glutes jiggled with the force. Beginning on the left, I struck him on the meatiest part, then lower down to the tops of his thighs. From there I moved methodically over and up, then over and down, covering the entire spanking area with an even layer of blows.

The heated skin beneath my hands was quickly becoming stained a dusky rose.

"If you need me to stop—"

_Smack!_

"—or just take a break—"

_Smack!_

"—you know what to say."

_Smack! Smack! Smack!_

"Otherwise—"

_Smack!_

"I will—"

_Smack!_

"keep—"

 _Smack_!

"going—"

_Smack!_

"until—"

 _Smack_!

"I—"

_Smack!_

"decide—"

 _Smack_!

"to—"

_Smack!_

"stop!"

_Smack! Smack! SMACK!_

And then I stopped abruptly, breathing heavily, and took a few seconds to catch my breath before groping the now hot, nearly magenta skin of John's arse. For the last few minutes, he'd been moaning regularly, his voice hoarse. I reached between his legs and wrapped my hand around his erection. John thrust into my hand. Feeling the copious amount of pre-ejaculate he had produced set something inside me even further ablaze. _I did that to him_ , I thought to myself.

"Are you always this wet when you're aroused?" I asked, my own voice a rasp.

I heard a low mumble of words suspended inside a constant, breathy moan, but he didn't answer my question. I moved closer to him and brushed the sweaty hair off his forehead. He turned his blind eyes towards me and I leaned down, kissing him on the cheek under the blindfold.

"Do you want to stop?" I asked softly.

"Oh fuck oh god oh fuck oh god oh god oh fuck," John whimpered.

I took that to mean, _please stop and fuck me now_ , or something like it.

"I'm taking off your blindfold so close your eyes," I said, and then took it off, careful not to snag any hair on the elasticized strap. I cupped his face in my hands and bent further over him so that I blocked out the overhead light. "You can open your eyes now."

John's eyes were moist with tears, but he didn't seem distressed. At least, if he was distressed, it was only the result of extreme, unrelieved arousal.

"You've done so beautifully," I cooed, and kissed his eyebrows, his cheeks. "So perfect and gorgeous. I'm going to untie you now."

I uncuffed him and supported him with my hands while he stretched out his arms. I ordered him to lie flat on his stomach. _Photos_ , I explained. I took my phone from my pocket and took a few pictures of his arse. The color was pornographic in its scarlet hue. There were several bluish areas where enough capillaries had burst to form small hematomas. They were _gorgeous_.

Some ibuprofen might be in order. It would hurt for him to sit for a few days. Of course, that's exactly what I'd wanted. I _wanted_ him to remember this every time he sat down.

I got up onto the bed, straddling his thighs, and slapped my hands onto his arse cheeks—not as hard as when I was spanking him, although he still jerked and hissed in pain. Digging my thumbs into the crack of his arse, I spread him wide, exposing his pucker.

John groaned and tried to shift himself up onto his knees, but I draped myself across his back, holding him down. I thrust myself against him so that he would feel my hardness then put my lips at his ear.

"I want to lick your hole and fuck it with my fingers, John," I muttered, the words coming unbeckoned. "Suck your cock. Swallow your cum. Fuck you hard enough to make you shout my name."

"Do it," he whimpered. "Do it, do it. Please."

Reaching up, I smoothed his hair with one hand and whispered, "Which do you want me to do?"

"Any of them. _All_ of them!"

I chuckled darkly. "Rise to your knees, and I will serve at your leisure, my lord," I said sweetly, then snaked my way down his body.

"Oh, my God, are you really going to, going to— _lick_ me? _There?_ "

"I'm going to grab a flannel with warm water, wipe you down, and then, yes, I am most definitely going to lick you. _There_."

While rushing for the loo and a warm flannel, I undid my trousers, letting out a long groan of relief, and kicked them off. As the water in the sink warmed up, I took off my shirt until I wore only my boxer briefs. My erection jutted forward obscenely and a wet spot the size of a guinea was visible at the front of my pants.

Once I had the requisite flannel, I wasted no time climbing up behind John who was kneeling as requested. I spread his cheeks, grinning at the sharp inhalation he made when I handled his bruised skin too roughly. I cleaned down the crack of his arse and over his hole with the wet flannel, then tossed it behind me, heedless where it landed.

"Has anyone ever done this to you?" I asked.

John shook his head and my breast swelled with pride and possessiveness.

"Has anyone touched you here?"

Another shake of his head and my ego ballooned even further.

"Have _you_ ever touched yourself here?"

"Just, maybe just a finger?"

"Is that a question? Do you not know if you've ever fingered yourself?"

He huffed in annoyance. "It was ages ago. In med school, after I learned about the prostate."

"Hm," I said thoughtfully. "And were you able to locate your prostate?"

"Nah. Fingers too short," he said and then—whether unconsciously or not—pushed back against me as though to say _get on with it_.

"I can guarantee," I purred. "That I can not only reach your prostate, but bring you to a blistering orgasm with nothing more than my tongue and my finger."

"What, like—are you saying like coming untouched?"

"Let's just try and see, shall we?" I said smugly.

~*~

After I delivered on my guarantee as to the quality of John's orgasm, and I had emptied my own balls deep inside his battered arse, we lay side by side, catching our breath. We were crowded together on one side of the bed to avoid the cum John had spewed all over the sheets. John was lying on his stomach, his arms along his body and his face turned towards me. I was on my back my hands gripping part of the iron railing of the headboard.

"So," John said when he could speak again.

"So?" I asked, turning towards him with half a grin.

"I think, maybe—

"Yes?"

"I'd like—"

"You'd like?"

"Stop interrupting me, you git," John said, his voice dripping with affection, and my toes curled with happiness to hear it.

I turned on my side to face him and kissed his lips where they were smushed against the mattress. "Continue."

"I think this is something I'd like to do again," he said without any of his initial shyness. "But of course you'd already deduced that, yeah?"

"Of course I had."

"Smug bastard. Go get something to clean that up," he said, meaning the puddle of his seed I was attempting not to roll into. "Then let's go to sleep."

"I have a better idea," I said, sitting up. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, offering him my hand. "Let's sleep in my bed."

"Fine, but you're still cleaning that up."

"Fine, but this is no longer your bedroom."

"Oh, really?" said John, allowing me to haul him up and out of the bed.

"Really."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're moving into my bedroom and we're turning _this_ —" I waved my hand around the room. "—into a _playroom_. I've always wanted a playroom. There's so many things I can buy if I have a whole room at my disposal." My mind was already imagining the possibilities.

"Oh, God," John groaned. "Your eyes are getting all glittery in that scary way."

I pulled him to me and pressed our lips together, lingering but not deepening the kiss. The slap I landed on his arse when we pulled apart made him yelp.

"I love you," I said, framing his face with my hands. "I have never been in love and I will never love anyone else."

"Are you trying to sweet-talk me into letting you turn my bedroom into a so-called playroom?"

My lips turned up on one side in a grin of delight. "It's not your bedroom anymore, nor do I have to sweet-talk you. I have, of course, already deduced you are perfectly happy moving into my— _our_ bedroom and leaving this one to my devious designs."

John made a sleepy hum of agreement. His mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn and he leaned against me, sliding his hand into mine and knitting our fingers together.

Out of nowhere, I felt tears prick my eyes at the tenderness and thoughtless trust behind the gesture. I kissed the top of his head, uncaring of the sweat-dampened hair.

"To bed, my lord," I murmured, and, hands still linked, led my love downstairs to _our_ bedroom, to _our_ bed, and sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamlampyao3.tumblr.com/)!


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